


coming back as we are

by kimbiablue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pining, mycroft is a sassy unhelpful brother, sherlock is a drama angst queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbiablue/pseuds/kimbiablue
Summary: "It's always you, Sherlock Holmes," John says with the softest chuckle, mirroring a declaration made striding up a reception aisle. "I met Mary because you were dead, and I suppose it makes sense that I'd replace the most dangerous person I'd ever known with someone just the same. Although it merits a mention that you're wonderful and thrilling in so many ways that she isn't.” In which Sherlock warns John of Mary's duplicitous nature before the wedding and John marries her anyway so they can figure her out,  but along the way unexpected feelings and actions make it that much more complicated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I could cry that I'm finally posting this. I've been pouring my soul into it since at least the middle of July, when it started as three separate oneshots that all got dumped into what would become this behemoth. I haven't written fanfiction in years, save for a couple Johnlock oneshots in the past few months, but recently I got back into the TJLC community and am waiting (horribly impatiently) for series 4 in January! Working on this fic and a fan video have been tiding me over. There will be three chapters, each about 5,000 words. The first follows Sherlock's view, the second will follow John's, and the third will switch between viewpoints. I have most of the rest of the story finished, since I write very disjointedly, so expect the next two chapters soon!
> 
> Also The Scientist is my number one Johnlock song of all time and I'm very sad I can't just use all the lyrics.
> 
> One bajillion thanks to my lovely beta and partner in Johnlock crime, [chrysanthemumsies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysanthemumsies), plus [consulting-goldfish](http://consulting-goldfish.tumblr.com/) and [sherlockprettydamngayholmes](http://sherlockprettydamngayholmes.tumblr.com/) from tumblr, who helped with proofreading this chapter!

 Art by the incredible Johana at [johix.tumblr.com](http://johix.tumblr.com/post/153222130345/commission-for-kimbiablue-and-their-fanfic-coming).

 

**chapter one**

**tell me your secrets**

 

  _I had to find you, tell you I need you, tell you I’ve set you apart_

Coldplay, _The Scientist_

\---

 

Sherlock Holmes has never made a habit of fear, or apprehension, or sentiment, especially. From age 13 on, he’s considered himself a man not plagued by such things at all. However, he reflects, stood before his mirror to secure a flower to the lapel of his best Spencer Hart, that was before John Watson.

That is his life: Before John and After John. He's living in the After, a period full of concerns and feelings he'd never previously given the time of day. And on this day in particular, fear and apprehension and overwhelming sentiment reign as he prepares to defend the person that’s split his life into these eras, exceedingly for the better over the past four years.

 _Well,_ he thinks, straightening the cream tie at his throat. _How fortunate that I'm clever and that John is… well, John._

The threat is clever as well, he concedes, though he'll never give it the credit he gives to John's nature. All he can do today is stand at John's side and keep faith with the only two things he's ever _had_ faith in: his own steadfast brilliance, and his life-altering partnership with an army doctor.

_To battle._

_\---_

Sherlock shifts under the weight of a heavy internal sigh, faced with tables of guests in a reception hall shining in shades of yellow. He’s reaching the end of his best man’s speech, a joint effort between himself and John (save for the segments of his own veneration of John) in the name of remaining convincing throughout this entire ordeal, though the challenge of delivery had fallen to him. He’s nearly pulled it off, they’ve nearly completed the charade, but there’s a weariness in him (that he’s strived to disregard), a mental fatigue that began as John stood at the altar with Mary.

"But as I am apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion."

He stays the course, refusing for the moment to dissect any thoughts he might have toward John’s marriage that aren’t related to immediate concern for his best friend's safety. The disquiet has been there longer than this plan, longer than the threat, he knows; ever since he entered the Landmark to find John sat with a woman, ever since he returned to Baker Street alone, it’s been there. But for now, he tells himself it’s about keeping John safe.

He glances at the man sitting to his side and his next words threaten to stick in his throat. His eyes close briefly, and open again, as he forces himself to continue as planned.

"Actually, now I can."

 _Lie_ . It's all lies that carry him through the rest of his speech, and indeed everything he's said at this table already that wasn't the singing of his own personal praises of John. He ruminates on the many people that throughout his life have implied or stated forthright that he is a terrible liar and he thinks viciously, _if only they could see me now_.

John stands to embrace him and Sherlock thinks desperately that there isn't a single lie he wouldn't tell, in the name of keeping John Watson safe. He clutches at John's blazer for just a moment, and prays to every non-existent deity of every human religion catalogued in his hard drive that he will be able to do just that.

\---

_Seven weeks previous_

 

“I'm sorry, John.”

Sherlock, sat uncomfortably in his armchair, turns cautious eyes to the man stood in the doorway of their ( _his?_ ) flat. John has been gone for one hour and twenty-nine minutes, his cheeks flushed and hair tousled from the slight March winds. Sherlock can't interpret for certain if John has been outside and walking for the entire duration of his absence, but he'd be willing to bet on it.

“I didn't even thank you,” John says, voice hoarse, making his way to the chair opposite Sherlock ( _John's chair,_ Sherlock thinks stubbornly). “For telling me.”

Something strange twinges in Sherlock's chest as John sits down heavily, and all he can think to do is apologize again.

He’d had it all planned out. John deserved to know everything that Mary had been hiding from him. Everything Sherlock had pieced together already, and everything they’d continue to learn. He’d express condolences, suggest that together they could discover her employ, assure John that he would be by his side and in his confidence in all matters regarding this, and then ask something tremendous of him: that he still marry her, and play the game until the mystery of Mary Morstan was solved.

He’d gotten as far as broaching the subject as delicately as he could manage, therefore nowhere near delicately enough, and explaining that he had proof, before the desolation on the doctor’s face brought him to a halt, and John stumbled from the flat. Sherlock heard the thud of a foot colliding with a wall before the slam of a door, and then silence. Mrs. Hudson would worry.

He himself worried, for one hour and twenty-nine minutes. Whether John believed him because he has come to take Sherlock’s deductions as gospel, or whether he refused to believe him because illogical sentiment regrettably cannot always be avoided, Sherlock did not know. And so he waited.

Regarding John now, so close and solemn, Sherlock cannot recall ever feeling more contrite in his life, not even when saying goodbye to John from several stories up Bart’s. That is now merely a previous entry on the list of sorrows John Watson has fallen victim to from those he keeps close. Sherlock feels all the worse for having dealt the newest blow, though the fact that it was not his own transgression helps to alleviate this, as does John’s apparent gratitude.

He opens his mouth, but can’t think of the proper thing to ask (is John angry or upset or did he kick anything else or did he talk to anyone), so he closes it again. Better than saying sorry for a third time. John’s lips quirk as he takes in Sherlock’s struggle, and Sherlock actually feels the weight in his chest begin to lift at the sight. It stuns him sometimes, the way his own reactions end up tied to John’s, when he’s never had that with any human being before.

“I mean it though, Sherlock.” John tells him quietly, and Sherlock pushes down the uneasiness of recognizing that John has cried, perhaps for an extended period, and obviously substantially. “Thank you. Trust you to look out for me.”

“I know it’s not an easy thing to accept,” Sherlock responds after a significant pause of pondering what to say (because honestly, what does he know of accepting deceit in a romantic partner?), though he chooses the comforting words in the end anyway. “And I’m relieved you’re not angry with me.”

“Sherlock, I’m not-” John straightens in his chair as though surprised, then sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I’m not angry with you. God. Why would I be? This isn’t like when you chased all my girlfriends off by being a dickhead. Not even close.”

“Well, sometimes a person might prefer… what’s the phrase? A pretty lie over an ugly truth?” Sherlock is suddenly overcome with the esteem in which he holds his friend. “But I have never taken you for such a person, John.”

He is rewarded with a smile, small and doleful though it may be, and he thinks he could possibly grow used to sentiment, if he has John and John has him. John leans back in his chair, smile fading into the resolve and decisiveness Sherlock so respects in him.

“What happens now?”

Sherlock doesn't reply at first, winded by an abrupt wave of fondness that is at once completely alien to him, and perfectly at home in his chest as he stares at John Watson.

“Well, I should hope it goes without saying, John, but I'll be by your side in everything.”

There's a moment, then, certainly not the first of its kind (nor the last, Sherlock imagines), where they share a glance rife with mutual appreciation and understanding. Now however, words, which have always been unnecessary, are begging to be spoken in intimate reverence, and in this Sherlock feels a shift from their standard.

His lips part and he feels too warm. If John has taken notice of this deviation, his expression is not giving that away, and so Sherlock draws in a steadying breath to continue.

“Now, to business.”

He shakes his head to clear the strange and distracting emotions, and wills John’s hallmark courage to see them through the next seven weeks and beyond.

 ---

 Sherlock inhales deep the crisp evening air, grateful for a respite from the crowd currently lavishing further congratulations on the newlyweds, before the evening festivities set in. His fingers move in subtle yet lithe maneuvers in midair, habitual preparation for the piece he will play during the customary first dance between bride and groom. He has never dreaded a violin performance more.

Standing in a garden of muted light and sound, it's almost easy for Sherlock to convince himself that he's simply escaping people as he has always been wont to do, that this is merely another exhausting social experience, not something much more personal.

As if summoned by Sherlock's own traitorous thoughts, John appears at down the lane with an audible sigh of relief. Sherlock is glad for the truth in that his tolerance for social contact wears thin rather quicker than for others, as it makes a fine excuse at present for his having sequestered himself, though he doesn't begrudge John's presence even now.

As always, his doctor is the exception.

“There you are, Sherlock. I swear you're the only person I could possibly stand to be around right now.”

Sherlock finds it safe to assume that John’s lighthearted smile can only be in reaction to finding _him_ , as neither his bride nor the day and its events can be bringing him any contentment. His heart rate picks up and he straightens his posture in exasperation, thankful for the dark of night which would corroborate dilated pupils. _If they even are dilated, of course,_ he scoffs to himself, desperate to ignore his current train of reasoning.

“I was just- just taking a moment,” he starts, but John waves off anything further as his smile widens, though minutely nervous, and there's a knee-jerk shift into consulting detective focus that Sherlock frantically attempts to stall.

_Hesitation evident in John's first step toward him despite a smile. Comfortable yet is preoccupied with potential action or words._

_Glance over the shoulder made to look like reflex, tensing of arms and heavily exhaled chuckle indicate otherwise. Doesn't particularly want to be interrupted, or even noticed._

_Pulse jumping erratically at-_

No. Sherlock doesn't want to interpret these things. It's easier that it's just John come to see where he'd gone, John perhaps wanting to share in relief that the vows and the speeches have passed flawlessly, John suggesting they return to the reception.

Anything but what Sherlock doesn't dare give contemplation to.

“Needed a break too?” _Forced nonchalance. Do it better._ “You know me, John, I'd have given something away had I not escaped all those… people.”

The dismissive disdain in his voice, put there for show, hits the mark as John exhales again in amusement and settles at Sherlock's side against a hedge. Any misgivings Sherlock had noted in John before have melted away, replaced by undisguised admiration.

“Sherlock, you did everything perfectly. I wouldn't have made it through this without you.”

Sherlock feels strong fingers grip his forearm, and he presses himself a little more firmly against the hedge for stability before he responds.

“No, John. Your actions are to be commended today. You're the one that had far too much asked of you.”

They lapse into what once might have been a comfortable silence, drinking in their gratitude and fondness for the other. There's a nebulous assessment swirling in Sherlock's brain; out of the most common and pronounced tells of the _terrifying_ _thing he's definitely not acknowledging,_ John is displaying at least four of them and he doubts that his own face is any less revealing.

He is rigid with indecision and agitation, and John's eyes flick downward ever so briefly-

Then John is shaking his head and leaning back against the hedge.

"It is difficult, you know.”

Sherlock's muscles relax as John speaks.

“She's beautiful today, and I can remember why I loved her. I imagine she might love me, in her way. But she's dangerous, she's a liar, she could be using me to help some other arsehole get to you…”

He inhales through his nose. Several weeks on and the facts are no easier to bear. "But trust me to fall for that sort of woman, you know?"

"John." Sherlock's voice is soft. Of course he is right.

John glances at him. "I swear, Sherlock, when you first told me I wanted to be angry. I left the flat and walked around and I just wanted to come back and rage at you, before I realized how ridiculous that was, of course. So I thought I'd settle for resenting the frankly maddening way you seem to take over everything in my life."

Silence reverberates between them. John is everything to Sherlock, in ways that nothing and no one have ever come close, not even his work, sole defining factor of his life though it had been before John (and he _must_ admit this to himself, now). He cannot understand boundaries, cannot respect social expectations, cannot do anything to quell his need for John Watson. He's wondered before just how inconvenient this is for his flatmate and now-

"I couldn't, of course," John says at last. "But then, it's only ever been you, hasn't it?"

Sherlock blinks. He can tell from John's tone that it was meant it to be contemplative but it prickles at him. "What?"

John's body language shifts in a way that Sherlock struggles to intuit.

"It's always you, Sherlock Holmes," he says with the softest chuckle, mirroring a declaration made striding up a reception aisle. "I met Mary because you were dead, and I suppose it makes sense that I'd replace the most dangerous person I'd ever known with someone just the same. Although it merits a mention that you're wonderful and thrilling in so many ways that she isn't.”

Most intentional pronouncements, Sherlock has learned, are accompanied by meaningful glances, or reactions decidedly charged with emotion, but John is not looking at him. His head is tipped back, eyes cast to the sky and mouth set in a small ironic grin. He has proven both predictable and surprising in equal measure, and so Sherlock studies his profile while heat twists through his limbs. Even he cannot mistake the comparison. John has spoken of his relationship with Sherlock, and his relationship with Mary, in the same vein.

"J-John," he stammers, as the man turns to look at him. This silent exchange sends a charge through Sherlock that he has never felt before - finally accepting the crushing weight of everything unspoken. He doesn't understand it, but what he does understand, with perfect clarity, is that he has chosen John above all else (sentiment again, warranting extrapolation, _not now_ ). If John has chosen him in any manner _close_ to this, Sherlock knows he will defend this connection at all costs.

He swallows past an emotion he can't name and places a hand gently on John's shoulder. "I meant what I said. I'll never let you down, I'll keep you safe, I'm _not_ dangerous to you in the way that she-"

John seizes the front of Sherlock's vest and presses their lips together. It's brief, but rough, and somehow Sherlock can recognize that it's very, very John before everything in him goes offline.

John begins to pull back. "Sherlock, I've had weeks to think about all this-"

That low voice reignites the detective, his hand tightening on John's shoulder and drawing him in again, focus narrowed to the inferno in his chest and the wanting in his lips. Dormant instinct flares to life as he kisses John Watson; it's too much, and not enough, all at once.

John's steady weight anchors him to these new sensations, and he imagines his body could continue on quite sufficiently without his mind, but John abruptly shifts back a few inches. With bodies pressed together, Sherlock knows a devastating desire in those seconds that stretch into centuries.

"Not weeks." John's voice is a rasp and a murmur at the same time. "Longer than that, god. Much longer."

After a flash of blazing eyes and a gasp of shared breath, John pivots and returns to the reception. Sherlock watches him leave, mind racing once more and his very _fingertips_ buzzing with something he's never known before.

Trust John to work out what he refused to look at directly. Trust John bloody Watson to do something about it.

Sherlock's chest heaves and his lips burn.

 --- 

He brings his Strad to life while John dances with Mary. The bow and strings feel like acid in his hands, and for the first time he can ever recall, he takes no pleasure in a melody of his own creation.

He delivers his first and last vow to John. He addresses the both of them, but it's never for her. _You know that, don't you, John?_ Eyes the color of moonlight in the dim reception hall remain locked to his while he speaks.

He all but vaults from the platform when his vow is complete, simultaneously frightened and furious and envious and anguished (and something else smoldering under his ribs that he can't name), a terrible rhapsody of emotions within a man that hours prior had claimed to have no notion of such things.

He places a hand on John's shoulder when he reaches the pair, fingers flexing in memory of the events of the garden. His throat swells with choking emotion and he finds himself wishing that Mary and every last wedding guest would sod off to hell.

He can't bear to think of the next several weeks, where John will have to be absorbed in Mary and newlywed life. Where Sherlock will be severely restricted in seeing him. He's not sure if this is fear for John's safety or something else entirely but he aches at the idea all the same.

He forces a small smile as Mary sweeps John away into the crowd, aware in a far corner of his brain that the DJ has cued an upbeat song, unfair in contrast to the pain inside him. Horrifying tears prick at his eyes as he finally gives voice to the thought that he's not just losing a blogger or a crime scene helpmate. John is _his_ , in just about every way, his to protect and care for and hold.

He stands by and watches the woman who will never deserve his doctor, and who may very well hurt him, take him far enough out of reach that even the memory of John’s kiss-come-confession is of little consolation.

He is overcome with the fierce desire to seize John's hand and run into the night. John would oblige. John would follow.

Sherlock leaves.

 ---

 It is nine days before he sees John again.

 --- 

The night he departs the wedding, he returns to Baker Street, consumed with a nameless torment beneath his breastbone. He moves through the darkened flat, ignoring the lamps. Places his Strad, safe in its case, on its designated shelf. Lights a cigarette from a pack that John probably thought he'd hidden well the last time he came round. Stomps to the bathroom in disgust and flushes it after only two drags. He'd let John hide every cigarette in his possession for the rest of his life if it meant he'd be at Baker Street.

He strips out of the suit and leaves it on the bathroom floor, quite content to never wear it again, and heads straight for his bedroom. He pauses in the doorway, a wordless exclamation of distress leaving him without his permission as he braces against the wall and clenches his eyes shut.

Standing in the dark, with what he would think to call heartache searing every fibre of his body, he is reminded of why he has avoided emotional entanglements for the better part of his life.

John had put his hands on him and kissed him. For Sherlock, it's not unlike staring down a perilous slope, where once he _knows_ what it is to feel and covet and touch, it'll be too late to come back, to refrain, to stay detached. He wants to know so badly, and it frightens him. He wants John.

He pushes away from the door, collapses gracelessly onto his bed, sends a text that is inadequate compared to all the things he'd like to say ( _Goodnight, John. SH),_ and wills sleep to take him. He'd be lying if he said he isn't considering cocaine, but if John can be brave when faced with the enemy, Sherlock will be brave when faced only with this loss he feels with a passion.

As he drifts into unconsciousness, he is intimately aware of his own skin and how John Watson’s lips would feel across every inch of it.

\---

It is half-four when he awakens to a painful erection and a text message from John.

_Thank you, Sherlock. For everything. I'll talk to you soon._

Sherlock squints at his mobile before tossing it aside, deciding he'll check the time the message was received in the morning. He groans with dissatisfaction as he settles back into the bed and glares at the bulge beneath his pyjamas.

Since the onset of puberty, Sherlock has mastered the ability to ignore the more inconvenient facets of his anatomy. Barring the times he has given in for the sake of relieving tension, significantly few and far between, he has never had trouble disregarding an erection.

Never before, though, has he had memories of John Watson’s hands pulling him in, John Watson’s voice low with desire, and John Watson’s lips on his. His next breath comes out a hiss, transforming into a snarl of frustration as his hips buck and he throws himself onto his stomach.

He imagines most people nurse arousal by picturing far filthier things than the look in someone's eyes during a first kiss, but there it is. He's unspeakably aroused by the fresh memory of John Watson kissing him. He grinds his face into his pillow, pleading to nothing that he can resume sleep before sorrow overtakes him again.

He pulls up in his mind an image of Ms. Hudson’s ludicrous hat at the wedding and recites the periodic table backwards by name in an effort to dispel his erection and lose consciousness.

\---

With the dawn comes the profound weariness of remembering the previous evening’s events, and knowing John will be unreachable for at least as long as it will take to process them. There’s nothing more he’d like at this very moment, curled in his sheets with what feels suspiciously like the remnants of tears in his eyes, than for John to be here with him. He tells himself it’s purely for the knowledge that John would be safe, although it’s a lie. He also tells himself he’d be discontented with having another person around in his state of vulnerability, but this is a further untruth; he cannot recall a single instance in four years where he truly lamented John’s presence, and if anyone were to see him now, he’d damned well prefer his army doctor.

With a stretch of limbs that dislodges his sheets, he relishes the morning chill that sharpens his senses and allows him to think, before he groans and considers he might like to stop thinking altogether. He rises to a sitting position, head buried in his palms. This is the part he has dreaded most: the Sex Holiday. Or honeymoon, as he’s told ordinary people refer to it. Before even the garden or his altered emotions, knowing that John would have to keep up the charade on his own, and play happy couples alongside a clueless someone with whom his relationship had been destroyed, gave Sherlock over to fret.

And now…

Well, he can’t deny it to himself, he thinks, bare legs swinging over the side of the bed as he stands to head for the bathroom. The concern for John’s safety, or ability to keep up the pretense, is not what plagues him most about the honeymoon. He steps out of his pants, kicks them into the hall along with his discarded suit, and turns the shower tap to as hot as it allows. He can’t help it now, can’t help picturing John taking Mary to bed, can’t help the revulsion and distress (and yearning, for John) that claws through his chest, he just _can’t help it_ after what happened in the garden.

He steps under the blistering stream of water, thankful for the way it sears his skin and sends up steam to dizzy him, though it’s but a fleeting reprieve from his brooding. His thoughts simmer into hazy memory, a heated kiss, smoldering eyes, and languid breath flooding every corner of his mind. He tries valiantly not to imagine John having intercourse, tries to discourage the sudden blood flow to his groin, and fails.

Sex is an unavoidable course of action for John at this time, as any lack of participation would raise undue suspicion on Mary’s part. Sherlock has little understanding of sexual attraction and how emotions relate, so he cannot predict how well John will be able to perform. John is surely still physically attracted to Mary, though he no longer loves or trusts her the way he once did. Perhaps it will simply be an habitual act, as they undoubtedly have coupled many times over the course of their relationship.

Sherlock, though still attempting to melt his skin in an effort to not think of John in bed, cannot prevent the flashes of _John and Sherlock_ and _lips_ and _naked bodies_ and _sliding over and in and together-_

He growls against the desire that coils within him, then keens as he closes a fist around the base of his erection, unable to control that particular primal urge. His hand slides up once and he shudders with a moan before he releases himself, turning to wrench the tap all the way in the other direction, wordlessly shouting all the things he can’t verbalize. He will _not_ wank in the shower to the thought of his flatmate, though his body aches for what had only begun to be promised as he kissed the man the night before.

The frigid shock returns him to his senses, physically if not mentally, and for an endless moment he stands, icy water sluicing over his body, mourning and hoping and chastising and _wanting._

\---

It is two days before he leaves the flat for takeaway and cigarettes, and two nights before he manages a proper sleep again.

\---

He texts John, once a day. The first time he stares at his phone for entirely too long before settling on:

_John, I commend your courage in facing this part alone. Keep me updated as to your safety, at your leisure._

_SH_

Closely followed (with heat in his belly and lips quirking) by:

_Thinking of you._

_SH_

The response comes immediately, which is unexpected. The pleasant swooping in Sherlock's chest is even more so.

_I have no choice but to face this part alone, you sod. Doesn't mean it isn't difficult, so thank you._

Then:

_This will be over soon enough. I'll see you then, Sherlock._

He thinks of ringing John, but that would be worse, he reasons, though he is desperate to hear John's voice.

\---

He chain smokes and shouts at the telly and plays the violin, scrubbing the hateful wedding waltz from the strings with every swipe of his bow.

\---

He notes the irony in his having been concerned for how adequately John might keep a level head, when he is the one driving himself spare, locked away in his flat.

\---

_How long do these sex holidays last anyway?_

_SH_

He deletes that with a sigh.

_Thinking of you, John, of course. Hoping you're well. Hoping you're managing some time to yourself during this holiday._

_SH_

 

_Might take a case._

_SH_

\---

It is five days when he contemplates assuming Shezza for a case. For a drug den. For cocaine. It’s tempting beyond belief. It’s tempting, and he loathes himself for it.

\--

He doesn't take the drug den case. The same evening he decides against it whilst lying in bed, he gives into something far sweeter and far more dangerous than cocaine, bringing himself off with one fist and choking off his shout with the other. He comes to the memory of blue eyes and rough lips, body shaking for a long while after he has finished.

\---

_As well as can be, Sherlock. I admit I'm impatient for a resolution, for freedom, for many things._

_Don't forget the hat._

_\---_

It is seven days when he worries himself all over again with regard to pregnancy.

He had attempted to initiate a conversation on the topic whilst planning how John would keep to normalcy after the wedding. John had sputtered that he'd take precaution and to leave it at that. Nevertheless, Sherlock lends concern to the idea, but tries to put faith in John that he can prevent it. Conceiving a child with Mary would change and complicate everything.

\---

John's name is a muffled howl into his pillow that evening as his toes curl and his fingers stroke debilitating pleasure from every sinew in his body.

\---

It is eight nights when he realizes that perhaps he could pass this time, where John is unavailable, by being useful, perhaps even seeking support in their plot against Mary. Admonishing himself, he considers Lestrade and the Yard, before scoffing because he knows even _Mycroft_ would be more helpful.

He straightens up out of bed, reaching for his mobile. Hm. Lestrade probably wouldn't have appreciated a text in the middle of the night anyway.

He navigates to the string of texts dedicated to Mycroft, noticing with a start that he has three unopened messages, then supposes he must have deleted the knowledge of receiving each one shortly after they were delivered. He doesn't much care, though he opens them now.

_Quite possibly you might join Dr. and Mrs. Watson on their holiday?_

_MH_

Grimace. Delete.

_It seems rather as though you're getting involved, little brother._

_MH_

Snarl. Delete.

_Could it be that you've buried yourself in takeaway and misery, brother dear? Nothing like this since Redbeard. Take a case._

_MH_

It is only the thought that his repugnant brother, and the forces at his command, might be of some assistance to John that prevents him from hurling his phone at his wardrobe. He jabs a text to his unfortunate relation, resolving to delete the previous correspondence first from his mobile and then from his brain.

_If you'd care for an activity aside from nagging or eating sweets, I have a proposition. It involves protecting John._

_SH_

He doesn't expect an answer until morning, so he sets his mobile down and wriggles into his sheets. What he _does_ expect is that Mycroft will ask for details, or scold him for the jibe about sweets, or pick at him further for his sulking. He rolls to his side, putting Mycroft out of his mind, and falls into a restless sleep with a hand down his pyjamas and an army doctor in his unconscious.

\---

On that ninth morning, he is startled awake by Mycroft at his bedroom door, a file held in his hands.

“I texted,” says his brother, sniffing in disdain, no doubt at the containers of takeaway and unwashed sheets.

Sherlock casts a somnolent eye at his mobile, and then back at Mycroft.

“And you deigned to intrude in my flat without waiting for a response because…?”

“Funny you should finally ask for help, dear brother, when these came to my attention only this morning.”

Mycroft extends the file in Sherlock's direction.

“It's rather serious,” he drawls.

Sherlock sits up with a huff of irritation, takes the proffered file, and opens it with the air of someone interrupted from something boring yet infinitely preferable to the task at hand. Mycroft watches, face impassive, as Sherlock's expression shifts rapidly into one of consternation and a flush swarms up his pale neck.

“Oh and Sherlock, you may want to inform Doctor Watson. Immediately.”

\---

Miles across London, the vibration of John’s mobile in his pocket interrupts his taxi ride to Tesco, and has him hastily ordering a change of direction to the driver. He stares at the screen, heart staccato with memories and yearning.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. Please, John._

_SH_

He feels like he’s been waiting for it.

 

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to stop by my tumblr, also [kimbiablue](http://kimbiablue.tumblr.com/) and say hello! :)  
> 


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